I drank half the bottle before I made myself cease. I knew from experience on the Peninsula that nodding off in a cold, damp place could be dangerous. A person’s body might chill until it couldn’t warm again, even if the temperature wasn’t all that frigid.
I poured the second half of that bottle under the door, then leaned my head against the wall.
Had Michel killed Gallo? To defend the Devere brothers? I could well imagine it.
However, Michel would likely be wise enough, and strong enough, to toss the man’s body into the river, instead of leaving Gallo to be found by the first person over the bridge.
Michel could not have assisted in the murder of Potier—that had been twenty-five years ago, and he must have been a wee lad then. But he might have known about the murder if he’d worked for the Deveres, or even if he’d lived near the ironworks.
No matter Michel’s role in either killing, he was very protective of the Deveres. He might do anything for them.
I did doze off, and woke, sneezing. The settling dust from the bottles hung in the air.
At the same time I heard, blessedly, Brewster’s voice.
“Bloody hell, get that door open,” he was bellowing. “Toot sweet—you understand me? Allez.”
Another voice rumbled behind Brewster’s broken French, one smoother and more patient. I also heard growls from what must be the comte’s guards, and then something slammed onto the door’s latch.
“Carefully,” I yelled, my word slurring. “I can’t move out of the way.”
More bangs on the door latch, the thing solid. The Deveres’ ironsmiths did good work.
At last, wood splintered from the frame, and the door sagged open. I flinched from the lantern light that spilled into my dark prison, and flung up my hand to shield my eyes.
“Guv!” Brewster’s strong grip hauled me from the cold floor and into an equally cold, but now bright passageway.
Brewster heaved me up against a wall and started patting my chest and sides, while a burly man flashed an open lantern at me. Behind two more guards, another man hovered in the shadows, keeping to the circle of darkness beyond.
“Cease battering me, Brewster.” I tried to push away his hands. “I’m fine. Just cold. I need coffee and a hot bath.”
“There’s blood all over the floor out here,” Brewster said. “Yours?”
I started to laugh, and Brewster drew back, wrinkling his nose at my breath.
“It’s wine, my friend,” I managed. “He locked me in a forgotten wine cellar.”
“Drunk, are ye?” Brewster peered at me. “Who d’ye mean by he?”
“Michel,” I said, or tried to say. “Who is your friend?” I waved at the shadowy man behind him.
“Bring him,” the man instructed. His voice was a familiar one, which made me laugh again. “Clean him up and make sure he’s sensible enough to talk to the comtesse. She wishes him to vouch for me.”
My laughter increased. “Bonjour, sir. What brings the careful Mr. Denis all the way from London to the dusty cellars of a French chateau?”
Chapter 25
Brewster half-carried me to a sumptuous bedroom one of the comtesse’s bland-faced footmen led us to. There, Brewster sobered me up with hot coffee and by dunking my head into a wide basin of water.
The footman remained to assist, keeping his pristine gloves far from my grimy body.
I tried to ask questions as Brewster scrubbed my face and peeled my damp and dusty clothes from me, down to my smalls.
“How did you find me?” I managed around soakings. “Why was Michel roaming the comtesse’s cellars? And what is he doing here?”
“I made the lot of them scour the place when one of them footmen tells me the comtesse was tired of waiting for ye.” Brewster finished toweling off my face and handed me a comb. “Only you could find trouble in house you’re a guest in. As to the other two questions: I don’t know, and I don’t know.”
“Thank you, anyway.” I tugged at my unruly hair, which the mirror showed contained more threads of gray. Or maybe it was the dust. “I feared I’d be too far gone by the time you reached me.”
